WYDIWIS What You Dream Is What I Steal
by Lunedd
Summary: Demons, dreams and Dean - an explosive mixture. When Dean tries to get rid of his dreams from Hell, everything goes south... Hurt!Dean, Protective!Worried!Sam and Bobby - rated T, may go up, Spoilers for all seasons
1. Chapter 1

Well… here I am again! This story took a long time… And it's a long one – more words, more fun!

It's set between season 4's episodes: "It's The Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester" and "Wishful Thinking", so there are spoilers throughout the seasons 1 to 3 and 4 as well.

Dean was in Hell – and he brought nightmares with him, nightmares of what happened there. How can he cope with them? Does he cope with them? He finds a way to get rid of them - and everything goes south…

A special thanks goes to my betas Mouse95 and kedicct: you two are great!

So, to everyone: please let me know how you like it!

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**Chapter 1**

**Present -1 day**

Even deep asleep, he knew it was a dream. He knew he should wake up. He knew...

_His dad stands before him, shouting something at him, shaking a dirty gun in front of his face, he hangs his head in shame, knows he has neglected his job, disobeyed an order, which was actually worse than the dirty weapon itself, so he takes the gun from his father's hands and starts taking it apart,__ he feels so tired since it is deepest night, when a boy of his age should be sleeping in his warm bed, not doing the job of a soldier-_

_Sam, his baby brother, his Sammy, he's lying against his chest, both of them on their knees, and there is this terrible warm and sticky fluid on his hand as he pulls the shaking hand back from his brother's spine, Sam's head lolls limply against his neck... Hell, why can't he feel his brother's breath anymore? 'Sammy, NO'-_

_Sounds, panting, growling, paws hitting the ground and pushing heavy, muscular, unearthly bodies forward, tracking him down, chasing him, small twigs cutting into his face and arms, thick brush hindering his flight as he crashes through the woods, not caring about tearing his jacket to shreds. Then there is this terrible sound of paws shoving the heavy body of a Hell Hound off the ground, propelling it through the air, then, before claws and teeth hit him, he feels the hot, burning saliva spraying his neck-_

_Hands, with fingernails turned into talons tear on his naked body, dig deep into his skin, tear it apart, tear into flesh, muscles, and right down to the bones ... scratch along them as the talons rip his flesh, shredding him. He's a bloody mess, writhing on what used to be his back, without limbs, no eyes left to see his attackers, no lips left to utter his cries of agony-_

Dean woke up. The sharp intake of breath and the small whimper that followed weren't noticed by his brother. Sam slept peacefully on in the bed next to his.

He ran a hand down his face and wasn't really surprised that it was wet and sticky with sweat. His heart pounded as if he had run a mile-a-minute. All his muscles seemed to have tensed at once. He gritted his teeth and concentrated on the impossible task of relaxing his muscles.

He succeeded slowly, ever so slowly, and he felt his heart slow down. He took in long, deep breaths, filling his lungs with much needed air; he must have had held his breath involuntarily while sleeping.

Blindly he felt for the familiar shape of the bottle next to his bed under the pile of his clothes and grabbed it. He unscrewed the cap and emptied the bottle with a few long gulps. The burn of the whisky down his gullet into his empty stomach convinced him that he still had one, that it was not torn away from his body over and over again...

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head fervently. _'It's over, it's not happening again_.' He shuddered and threw a glance at Sam. _'Just hang on a few more hours, Dean'_, he ordered himself, _'a few hours and you'll meet that chick that can help.'_

Dean forced himself to lie back down, knowing he should try to sleep again, since the alarm wouldn't go off for another two hours. And he needed to rest, needed it so desperately. The case they were on demanded it.

It was not a case these frigging angels had given them – he still was upset about the way that Castiel had filled him in about his family's past – but Missouri. Good old Missouri. Her call had pretty much surprised them, since she hadn't called for almost three years. Sam had speculated that the psychic didn't want to have anything to do with them after everything that had happened… And yet, Missouri had sounded rather offended that none of _them_ had never called _her _– And had asked them to come. Or rather: ordered them to come.

***

_Before_

The door opened before Sam could to ring the bell, and Missouri stepped out, a broad smile on her lips. She reached out with both arms and pulled a surprised Dean into a tight embrace. Sam grinned and watched the two, his brother's bewildered look as he closed his arms around Missouri's broad waist, and Missouri who let go of Dean as if he had burned her. She stared at him with huge eyes; a hand placed over her open mouth to stifle a whimper. "Oh, my, boy, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry... I didn't know... I-"

Dean lowered his head, not looking at her and murmured: "No need to. Don't deserve it."

She carefully took his hand in hers. "No, Dean, don't you ever think something like that, please! Come on in... Everything you did could not be avoided." She gently tugged at Dean's arm, and the young hunter followed her in, still not looking up.

Sam entered a few seconds later, biting his lip. Missouri had done nothing but touch his brother, and already she knew more about what had happened to him in Hell than he, his own brother, might ever be able to coax from him. Jealousy hit him with a nasty sting, and he suddenly wished they had never come.

"So, why'd I need to hear from Bobby Singer 'bout what happened to the two of you?" Missouri raised a hand when Sam cleared his throat, unsure where to begin, and continued: "Well, doesn't matter now. Just take a seat, Sam; I have to talk to your brother alone at first. Help yourself." She pointed to the table with a big plate of cookies.

Dean shot Sam a wary look, and Sam shrugged. '_Don't know what she wants'_, he mouthed and blushed when that got him a reprimanding sideways glance from Missouri who ushered Dean into the kitchen next to the living room, closing the door neatly behind her.

"So you're back and brought some nasty memories with you." She didn't ask a question, simply stated the facts.

Dean stood at the window, his back turned to her. He stared out into the darkness, clenching his fingers around the windowsill. "Yeah sorry I didn't warn you before you touched me, won't happen again."

"No, don't be stupid! Turn around and look at me when I'm talking to you!"

He obeyed, and for the first time she realized how pale and hollow-cheeked his face was. The rings under his eyes were dark, the white of his eyes bloodshot, and his usually soft lips were dry and cracked. His shoulders were ever so slightly slouched forward, and the hand he now placed on the table in front of him was trembling almost visibly.

Sadly, Missouri shook her head and made a step towards him, one hand stretched out to give him a comforting squeeze. She stopped when he winced back from her touch.

"So, what did you want to talk to me about that Sam isn't allowed to hear?" His voice was husky and there was the distant smell of alcohol on his breath, as if he had brushed his teeth with a glass of whisky instead of fresh water.

"I don't know what it's like being in Hell", she began and continued fast as his face closed up right in front of her, "but I know that sometimes sharing the bad memories helps to control the terror or even get over it." She looked at him, expectantly, eyebrows raised.

It took him a moment to understand what she meant; a sign of how tired he was.

"No. No no no." He backed off more and bumped into the wall. Missouri was more than a little startled by his harsh reaction. Her heart flew to him, and more than ever she just wanted to pull him into her arms and caress away all his pain as she had done with her own children when they were kids.

"I don't want you in my head, Missouri. I'm fine, really! I just don't want to-" he cut himself off, gritted his teeth and stared at the woman. A flurry of emotions flitted over his face, eyes burning with pain and worthlessness, but - as Missouri watched him carefully she detected something else, too... a kind of understanding that his usual pretence would not work with her.

"What are you so afraid of, boy?" Missouri's voice was soothing, and she saw how Dean's resistance crumbled. "Ah, I understand." Sadness engulfed her, and she was not sure if it was her emotion or Dean's. Probably both, she mused. Not that it mattered, anyway. "You are scared you could hurt someone else, here, on Earth, just the way you hurt those souls in Hell."

He pursed his lips, and she knew she was right. Of course, it would have been easy to get into his mind and just see the answer. ... But as she carefully probed his barriers she realized she wouldn't be able to sneak in without him noticing her. And the last thing she wanted to do was lose the boy's trust. So she relied on experience and knowledge of human nature to read the emotions his eyes couldn't hide from her. "There is no need to be afraid. I can see into your heart, you know that. And there is no evil inside you."

Dean returned her steady gaze, and she wanted to weep with what she saw reflected in his green eyes: the hope and the longing to be able to believe her words, the longing for forgiveness. He closed them, shutting her out once more.

"I wish I could believe you. But there's no absolution granted for me for what I did in the pit. I'm a monster, Missouri, I can't be forgiven."

"Aw, Dean, no, stop doing this to yourself", Missouri smiled at him sadly and grabbed a small leather bag from a drawer. She studied it for a second and gave it to Dean. "This should make your sleep dreamless." She explained at his curious look. He sniffed carefully at it and put it in his pocket. "What's in it?"

She paused, thinking. "Winter cherry, mandrake and some other things. Nothing to harm you, don't you worry. It's something I take, too, when it gets too hard to withdraw. Take two teaspoons on a pint of water and drink it before you go to sleep. It'll help, I promise. But – just to be sure – here's the email address of a friend of mine. She's sort of a psychic, too, and she knows some tricks to get rid of bad dreams. She's helped me out once or twice."

Dean peered at the piece of paper she had pushed into his hand and grinned. "Is she hot?"

Missouri slapped playfully at his shoulder. "Don't you dare, boy! All right, let's go back to that brother of yours, before he gets grumpy."

***

Sam was pacing.

When Missouri and Dean entered, he stopped between the window and the small table. One glance at his brother's face and he knew that it was futile to ask what that had been all about. Dean would rather bite off his tongue than talk to him. And after all that had happened between them over the past half year, Sam also knew his brother wouldn't fall for "the look" as easily as before.

He sighed inwardly and smiled uncertainly at Missouri. '_What if Dean had told her about my – uhm – new way to get rid of demons?_' Somehow the thought of her knowing what he did made him feel even more uncomfortable.

"Don't worry, Sam, we weren't talking about you, boy", Missouri dismissed him with a graceful motion of her hand. Dean grinned at the look on his brother's face as he took a seat next to her. "Sit down, boy. Here we go", she rustled through some papers and pulled out three, or four sheets out, placing them neatly next to each other on the table.

Sam leaned forward and studied the headlines for a moment. "So…?"

Missouri rolled her eyes at the dim-witted comment. "I think this is something for you. Look! All those people were killed in a cruel, cruel way."

"People are cruel to each other", Dean threw in. "Demons I get. People…," he shrugged.

"Just like your father. Finish the reading before judging!" Missouri was getting angry now, Sam could sense that. "Hm." He was through with the second paper and tossed it to Dean. "Interesting. A ghost?"

Dean read the three articles and then summarized. "A woman with her throat slit found in her bed. A man found dead in the cellar of his house, shredded to pieces. A man executed with his own axe – police still has no clue." He shook his head. "Don't think so. Look, the murders happened in different towns to different people in different ways. I've never heard of a ghost that changed his location."

Sam shrugged. "So, just a maniac serial killer?"

Missouri gave him a last paper. "No, I don't think so. I'm sure they're all connected. I can't explain it. ... I'm just sure."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Your psychic stuff?"

Missouri chided him shaking her finger. "Don't talk so disrespectful of things you don't understand."

An uneasy silence followed, and Sam cleared his throat, fighting to take the tension away. "Uh, back to the case. The newspaper says that there was no sign of intrusion, in any of the homes, no foreign fingerprints etc. That does sound like it might be our kind of thing."

"Well," Dean laid his hands on his knees and pushed himself up. "Then let's get started. We have some research to do. The killings appear to happen every two weeks, right?" He counted on his fingers. "The last one was thirteen days ago... Next one's due tomorrow. We should find out as much as we can as fast as we can!"


	2. Chapter 2

I'm so sorry - it took me longer to post this chapter than I planned. Well, real life sometimes sucks! But - here we are, and I hope you all enjoy it and let me know about it! ;)

As usual I forgot the disclaimer at the beginning of the first chapter, so I write it now: Nooo, I don't own ANYTHING about Dean, Sam or Supernatural... Nothing but Duanna is mine... Sad, but true!

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**Chapter 2**

**Present -1 day**

Duanna took the cocktail from the man's hand and gave him a friendly smile as he slipped opposite her into his seat. She could smell the stale stink of sweat under the cheap fabric of his suit, and reminded herself: '_He's a customer, don't forget that. You've dealt with people like him before.'_

She tugged an errand strand of her long brown wig back behind her ear and smiled even more radiantly when he patted the black Samsonite standing next to his leg. '_What a moron. Does he think I'm such a greedy bitch?_' One thing she had learned through all the years in business: men tended to underestimate women. Well, that was just fine with her.

Her eyes were stinging with the cigarette smoke he whiffed into her face, and she coughed discretely, but obvious enough for him to blush.

"Oh, I'm sorry." He waved a hand through the air, trying to spread the smoke.

Inwardly, Duanna sighed. Another one of those idiots. Didn't he realize that she was _so_ not impressed by his pseudo-worldly behaviour? _'Men are so easy to play. Give them a good-looking woman, and they make complete fools of themselves.'_ She forced herself not to rub her stinging eyes, knowing that might shift the lenses or even push them out.

"I've been wondering", he began and tugged at his too narrow collar, "If you heard about a friend of mine, too. Her name's Bela Talbot."

Duanna sipped deliberately her cocktail and managed to get a surprised look on her face. _That_ was a question she hadn't heard in months! Sure she knew what happened to Bela; she took the express elevator to Hell. Not that Duanna cared. They'd been acquainted, yes. She had even made a few deals with her, but... Honestly? Duanna had never liked her.

To a superficial observer their work certainly looked alike, but Duanna wasn't venal, not like that Bela-bitch with her terrible British accent. She considered her handicraft more as a form of art, kind of trading something she possessed for money. And she hadn't made a deal to be what she was today. Last thing she would ever do was sell her soul to some supernatural force. Not that she had to. It simply was in her blood. She had dealt with her – _power_ – since adolescence, and since then always succeeded to keep away from the big problems.

"No, I haven't heard a word. Last thing I know, she was seen in Vermont. And that's all. But let's get back to business", she threw him a seductive glance and grinned inwardly as she saw how he blushed. She knew he must be thinking of expanding their business relationship to – let's say – a more comfortable place. Like a bed. Disgusted she suppressed a shiver.

Oh, sure, she wasn't shy when her counterpart was presentable, but she had gotten pretty picky over the years. Handsome features and a nice body almost always worked for her at least when she was in the right mood. Then she didn't really care for a cultivated conversation.

But of course it was best when both the brains and the look were combined in the same guy. Something she hadn't seen for a long time. The thought occurred to her now as she saw the beads of sweat forming on the upper lip of her business partner. '_That's _so_ not going to happen, dude!_'

"Oh, yes, business. Show me the flask first." Now he tried to be all cool, all godfather-like. It bounced off her like a rubber ball, but of course she didn't show that. Her slender hand reached into her bag and she produced a small crystal flask.

"That's it?" He sounded disappointed, as if he'd expected the flask to talk to him, to shine, or worse.

She shrugged. "Yes."

He reached out a hand, but she withdrew the flask before his fingers touched it.

"Uh-uh, first the money, please." She'd certainly not be fooled that way.

The man sweated even more, if that was possible, and Duanna saw the dark stain under his armpit as he lifted the case and put it on the table. She turned the clasps to her and clicked them open. "Wonderful", she stated and handed him the flask, pulling her hand back fast when he grabbed the flask with plump, sweaty fingers, avoiding his touch.

"And – how does it work?" He eyed the flask suspiciously. Every cell in her body screamed to turn around and just leave this idiot to fate, but of course she wanted further business – not especially with him, but he had introduced her to some of his "special" friends that were interested in her – well – _work_ – too. So she just smiled sweetly and answered in a friendly voice: "You find a comfortable place, open the flask and breathe the essence in it in. Like a walk in the park."

He didn't seem convinced, though. "And what if nothing happens?"

"Believe me", she said in a dark, final voice, "it _will_."

And now it was his turn to shiver.

***

**Present -3 days **

"Nothing. Zip. Nada." Sam moaned and rubbed his hands over his tired face. "Dude, this leads nowhere. We just don't know where the thing is going to strike next. There is just no pattern to it." Closing his laptop Sam leaned back in the chair stretching out his long frame.

Dean, who had just entered the motel room they had stayed at for the last week, loosened his tie and got rid of his stiff suit jacket, not caring that it landed crumbled on the floor.

"Ah, my feet are killing me", he groaned and fell onto his bed, the one closest to the door, as usual. He pulled off his boots and started kneading his feet. "Uff.

"That morgue was huge I didn't think I'd ever get through it."

"And? Find anything? Because I found nothing. Except for the identical flasks that were in the victim's rooms nothing else connects them."

Dean waggled his toes and grinned at Sam. "Ha. I found something. The last victim, Misses MacDonahue, was murdered by _tadaaa_ a demon!"

"You found sulfur?" Sam was suddenly wide awake and alert again. _'But Ruby would've said something, right?! Where is she, anyway! I haven't seen her all week!' _

He caught the small sachet with a yellowish powder Dean had thrown and examined it. "Yeah, you're right. Sulfur. So – that means that this one is a different case? The others were killed by humans, nothing supernatural?" He shook his head, resigned.

"No. You know what? I have a crazy explanation: these guys were all killed by the same – whatever-son-of-a-bitch it was – and then _puff!_ After a decent score of homicides that thing turned into a demon. Probably some kind of initiation rite?"

Sam huffed. "Yeah, it's pretty crazy. But okay. Let's go to bed and start fresh in the morning."

"Okay, you go to sleep, I'm gonna watch TV." Dean didn't look at Sam, but he knew his brother was frowning at him. Damn, he had to be more subtle. Sam couldn't be fooled so easily, he knew Dean wasn't sleeping. He knew Dean desperately tried to cling to consciousness to escape his nightmares – memories – whatever...

"Dean. You look like crap. You should be sleeping, too. You need the rest." Sam put a hand on the bridge of his nose and pinched it, when his brother slumped in the chair in front of the TV, opening a bottle of beer, ignoring him. "Oh, come on, dude, do you think I didn't notice your nightmares? Whatever it was that happened to you in Hell, you do remember, right? You can tell me! Please."

Dean just turned up the volume. "Na, kiddo, it's ok, I'm alright! Ya know me."

"Yeah, and that's exactly the problem." Frustrated Sam clenched his fists and lay down on his bed, pulling up the blanket.

Dean listened to Sam's breathing as it grew longer and deeper. He turned his head and peered at his brother, satisfied that he was deep asleep. Sam had been so jumpy since Dean had been pulled from hell. He smiled slightly looking at Sam's relaxed features and listening to his soft snores reminded him of how things were before and suddenly all the sleepless nights caught up with him.

'_Might as well try the powder Missouri gave me_.' He yawned and filled a glass with water from the faucet. Carefully he dipped two spoonful of the sand coloured powder into it and stirred it. He raised a doubting eyebrow at the mix of water and the mud coloured streaks that ran down the side of the glass. He shook his head – _'What the fuck am I doing?!'_ He put the glass to his lips and downed it in one long gulp.

As the bitter fluid filled his mouth, he gagged and swallowed hard to get it down; finally succeeding he covered his mouth to stifle the coughing fit that threatened.

He didn't want to wake Sam and face all of the inevitable questions.

Eventually, when he could breathe in again without tears streaming down his face, he washed the glass out and put it back onto the shelf. _'Never leave any evidence behind'_, his father's voice sounded in his ears. He sighed and collapsed onto his bed. _'Wow. Missouri really has good stuff. This drug's working damn fast!_' He closed his eyes, not even able to strip off his pants, already asleep when his hand reached for the blanket.

_They start with his nails. Toenails, and fingernails are pulled out, agonizingly slowly. His skin is carefully sliced and just as carefully tugged off his body, bit by bit in one piece, leaving the raw, bloody flesh burning in a heat that seems to surround him, engulf him. He knows he is screaming, feels the soreness in his throat, but there is no sound escaping his mouth. He feels cold, strong hands on his ears, and then them being yanked off. Another scream, again no sound a burning sensation runs down his throat, sears his lungs, chokes him. A big knife before his blood shot eyes, cutting deliberately into his nose, chopping it off. The knife's digging deeper, cutting surgically away at his pectoral muscles, then the abdominal muscles, slicing deeper into his stomach and one of the cold hands reaches in and pulls at his bowels, tugging on them slowly, ever so slowly, and all he can think of is _How could that all fit into my belly?!_ Before the guts are dropped to the invisible floor and the cold hand grabs for his spine, wrenching it out of him, and still he can see and painfully feel every move the hands are making, there is no unconsciousness here, for he is already dead. His body is buried six feet under, and his soul, his precious soul, is here in Hell and it is tortured every day, year after year-_

Dean shot up and looked frantically around, chest rising and falling fast with the heavy breaths he was sucking into his lungs. Small whimpers filled his ears – _his ears? _ He reached up and groped for them.

A wave of relieve washed through him when he felt them right where they belonged. The vibration he felt coming from his throat made him realize that it was actually him who was whimpering. Dean drew in another deep breath and counted to ten, trying to slow his heartbeat. Okay. So this experiment went horribly wrong. No – even worse. He thought he still could feel the pain of being sliced into pieces running through his entire body with a slight tremor.

He hugged himself, rubbing his arms, tried to take comfort in his own touch. _'Well, Missouri, I guess you were wrong. These herbs don't work on hell spawn, obviously._'

Sam's sheets were rustling, and Dean unconsciously held his breath, willing Sam not to notice he was awake. Sam still did. "Dean, you okay?" His voice was raspy with sleep, and Dean was glad to see that Sam hadn't even bothered opening his eyes.

"Y-yeah, sure, everything's just fine go back to sleep Sammy." He waited until he heard the snoring again, then rose from the bed and cast off his sweaty shirt, the suit pants he was still wearing and his boxers and went to the bathroom to take a shower.

The warm water caressed his skin, and Dean felt his tense muscles slowly relax. He started examining his body, sparing no part of it, searching for evidence that he was really alive and awake, not hanging on that rack in Hell, being sliced to pieces and put together again. Finally, when the water turned cold and he started shivering, he turned the shower off, dressed and returned to the table where Sam's laptop was charging, the little red light flashing invitingly.

A coat-clad figure stood next to it, looking at him with blue, piercing eyes.

Dean relaxed as he recognized Castiel. "You really should learn to knock, man!"

The angel cocked his head to one side, glancing inquiring. "Why should I? This is happening only in your mind. I am not really here with you and your brother."

Dean snorted. "Sure thing. So – what do you want this time?"

"I sensed your distress. It pulled me here." He stood, waiting.

Dean stared back. "And?" He shook his head as the angel still stood, waiting. "You wanna play shrink? Oh, come on! As if you'd ever been interested in my distress before." He imitated Castiel's tone.

"Believe me. I am here to help."

"Help?" Dean spat the word out and was almost astonished that no spittle came with it. "Yeah, sure, all right, let's see how you can help." He paced back and forth. "Hm, where shall I begin? Oh, yeah, right: what about erasing the last four months? What about erasing the last 2 years?"

Castiel was dead serious when he answered: "That is beyond my power."

"Hm." Dean stopped and turned to Castiel, a pleading hope in his eyes. "And what about dreams – are you able to stop the dreams I have?"

The angel slowly shook his head, and Dean wasn't sure if he read the expression in his eyes correctly. '_He is – ashamed?!_'

"Oh, wow, I'm really surprised here, Cas. No, don't say a word. I'm fed up, so fed up. And you – you can go to hell – or heaven – or whatever. I don't care. I'm just tired."

The flashing light of the charging laptop burned into his staring eyes, and Dean carefully looked around, assuring himself that there was no angel, that it had all been in his head. Sam was still snoring softly, shifting his tall body lazily under the sheets.

Dean hesitated a second, threw another glance at his brother, and then opened the laptop quietly, booting it. He opened the page with his email account and keyed in his password, ignoring the few new emails in his inbox.

**Hi. A friend of ours, Missouri, gave me your address, said you could help me with my nightmares. Can we meet? Dean**

He read his words once, twice. Paused and decided to send the email.

Dean leaned back and rubbed his face. "Hope that works better than your last trick, Missouri." He muttered under his breath. The beep of the computer attracted his attention, and he stared incredulously at the screen for some seconds, where the _New Mail!_-sign flashed. His hand trembled slightly as he pushed the button and opened the email.

**Meet me in 2 days. Piscataway, NJ. The Old Man's Bar, at 11 pm.**

His eyes fixated on the few words until the letters swam before his eyes. He checked the email-address for ID, but knew it was futile. He had run the address through any database he got access to, which weren't too many, actually, since Sam was the computer geek with hacking abilities. Sure, he could have asked his brother, and of course Sam would have helped, but – no. Sam would ask questions Dean wasn't ready to answer yet.

**How do I know who you are? Give me a name, at least.**

It took her so long to answer that he thought she had gone offline, but when he was about to power down the laptop, the _New Mail _sign flashed again.

**No need to. I'll know who you are. **

Every cell in his body screamed. '_A trap! A trap!'_ But his mind knew it was the only way to break the cycle of nightmares that spun on and on every night, leaving him sleepless and restless. And if that bitch thought he would come unprepared, she certainly never had met a Winchester.

***

Sam watched his brother as Dean put the map onto the table, smoothing it down. "All the homicides were committed in the Eastern States. New York, Maryland, Delaware. So I guess we concentrate on this region."

Dean leaned forward and dusted some of the sulfur he had brought from the morgue onto the map. His face was pale, and his hands were trembling visibly.

Sam opened his mouth, ready to confront Dean that he knew his brother was drinking too much lately, that he knew Dean barely slept, that he was hiding something important from Sam. And shut it again. Well, that makes us even, right? '_Still no word of Ruby I wonder if she is in trouble?_' He shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other.

"Here, this is your part, psychic boy." Dean tossed the pendulum to Sam and almost caught him off guard.

"Uhm, yeah." Sam blushed somewhat, feeling guilty. He raised his hand over the map, the brass pendulum hanging loosely between his thumb and forefinger, setting it into a slow circle motion. It picked up speed after a few seconds, spinning wildly across the map, finally tugging Sam's hand down to a small spot on the map. With a faint _smack_ the pendulum hit the paper.

"There it is. Piscataway, New Jersey." Sam looked up triumphantly and frowned when he saw Dean's unbelieving stare. "Something wrong, dude?"

"Huh, uh, no, nothing just a minor coincidence a friend of mine lives there."

"Ah." Sam raised an eyebrow and grinned. "You'll certainly have time to meet her." Dean didn't answer his grin and avoided his eyes.

Sam kept the grin in place until he turned the back to his brother, and dropped the corners of his mouth. '_What the hell are you hiding from me, Dean? Do you think I don't notice? Yeah, sure, you had a hell of a time in the pit – literally – but being here without you wasn't fun, either. I've changed, I've finally grown up – had to – so don't tell me you're fine when you're not.' _

Deep down in his heart he knew he would never speak those words out loud. Too much had happened that Dean would never understand – the world still was too black and white for his brother, while Sam had learned that the gray zone was much larger than he had expected it to be. Especially when it came to demons. They weren't just – _demons_. Some could be really useful, and some – well – Ruby – were something special.

Even simply thinking of her made something stir in his lower body. She just understood what was going on with him, with the burden of the tainted blood in his veins. Something Dean, the '_oh so holy Dean'_ of the last few months, talking to angels and stuff, the Dean who had qualms, the Dean who hesitated, who thought about every step before he actually made it... this Dean would never understand him the way Ruby did. So... why bother and raise a stink when Dean didn't need to know what Ruby really gave to him?

"Got your stuff together? Then let's hit the road. It's quite a ride to New Jersey." Dean couldn't help but notice the concerned look his brother gave him _'You're getting careless, Dean. Gotta keep Sam, from worrying about you. No need to upset him, no need for him to know what a monster his brother really has become, a monster that tortures other people…'_

"Okay, tell me again... how will we know who will be the next victim?" Dean asked, not taking his eyes off the road.

Sam pursed his lips. "We found that card with one of the victims, right? It was the card from a bar that woman never went to before, her husband said. Remember? So... if she made a deal with a demon, a bar would have been a nice, cozy place, right?"

Dean nodded. "You think of Lloyd's Bar… Do you believe it might be a crossroads demon here, too?"

Sam shrugged. "Guess we'll just check out all bars close by. That should be an easy one for you." Sam meant it as a tease, but as soon as the words left his mouth he could have slapped himself, hearing the sting in them and seeing the almost imperceptible wince of his brother.

"Yeah, sure." Dean threw a fake smile at Sam and shifted in his seat, feeling uncomfortable. They fell into a tense silence for the rest of the ride.


End file.
